The door shut softly behind him, but the sound echoed in the marrow of every spine at the table.
Vincenzo walked forward with the same detached calm that the news anchor's voice had described—dead-eyed, expressionless, the air around him carrying that suffocating stillness of someone who didn't need to prove anything. He simply was.
Antonio's breath caught, his fists clenching beneath the tablecloth. A rush of pride surged in him, hot and sharp—that's my brother. Even when Antonio tried to imitate arrogance, lawless confidence, nothing compared to the way Vincenzo's presence filled a room. Antonio wanted to grin, to bask in it, but some instinct rooted him to silence.
Nick, by his side, felt his teenage arrogance crumble into awe. His cousin—the one the whole city whispered about—was here, in flesh, and every whisper of "hellish" power was true. He wanted to shout brother! and claim that closeness, but Vincenzo's unreadable eyes made even Nick's reckless tongue hesitate. He swallowed, smirk twitching faintly, covering nerves with bravado only he could taste.
Cathy's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite reverence—it was hunger. The kind of hunger that thrilled in the presence of a figure who embodied the very cruelty she adored. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickened, and she whispered in her own mind: perfection has entered the room.
Frank, in stark contrast, felt his stomach twist. Every fiber of him screamed that this was wrong, that the person his family admired was the same person casting a shadow across their humanity. Yet—even as his conscience burned—his eyes couldn't look away. He feared Vincenzo. He respected him, against his own will. And that contradiction gnawed at him.
Klein sat straighter, eyes sharp behind his calm expression. His mind churned with quiet calculation. So this is the presence that bends a city… He didn't admire blindly like Antonio or Nick, nor did he recoil like Frank—he studied, filing away every detail of posture, silence, glance.
Rafael, the elder uncle, leaned back, cigar in hand, exhaling slowly. Pride warmed his chest, but it was pride mingled with submission. He had lived long enough to see men rise and fall, but here—here was a man who would not fall. Beside him, Marco's throat worked in a swallow, his admiration edged with unease. He doesn't need us anymore. We need him.
Isabella stiffened, nails digging into her palm under the table. Resentment flared—resentment that her boyfriend had fled, her chances at normalcy ruined, her own life warped under the shadow of this man. Yet as Vincenzo's dead eyes swept past her, a wave of guilt drowned her anger. Why does he look so empty? Why does he look like… that?
Lucia's fork stilled over her plate. Fear rippled through her chest, cold and sharp. She wanted to scream that she hated him, that she hated being his sister, that she wished she could have a normal family. Yet beneath the fear was a fragile, buried truth—when he was near, no one could touch her. And that truth made her hate him more.
Clara's hands trembled in her lap, her throat constricting. Guilt crushed her lungs. My son… what have you become? Every rumor, every corpse tied to his name, every whisper of his coldness, twisted into the face that now stood before her. She wanted to reach for him, to ask if he still remembered her lullabies, but fear chained her silent.
Even little Mia froze, small hands clutching her spoon. She didn't understand power, or death, or fear the way the others did—but she felt the change in the air, the stillness that came with his presence. In her innocence, she simply thought: Brother makes everyone quiet…
And Luca and Enzo—the pillars at his side—watched him with reverence. Neither bowed, neither fawned, but their gazes burned with absolute loyalty. For them, Vincenzo was not just family. He was untouchable. Idol. Leader. Shadow. Blood would spill at his word, and they would be the blades.
The silence stretched, suffocating. The weight of his mere presence pressed down until the walls seemed to groan.
And inside his own mind—Vincenzo blinked once, faintly confused.
…Were they fighting?
He scanned their stiff shoulders, clenched jaws, the way no one dared speak. His stomach gave a small, quiet twist.
Ah… why are they fighting now? I hope they stop soon. I'm hungry… how can I eat in chaos?
Expressionless, hollow-eyed, he walked to his seat, every step echoing like the march of an executioner. The family's eyes followed as if he carried chains in his wake.
Vincenzo sat down, back straight, silent. The chair's creak was deafening. He lifted his gaze once more, slow, deliberate. And though inside he only thought of food, to them—it was the gaze of a devil confirming dominion.
No one dared breathe too loudly.
The legend had joined them
__________________
The silence thickened. Even the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded intrusive, an offense against the gravity of the moment. No one dared move, no one dared speak.
Vincenzo, seated at the head of the table, let his eyes drift slowly from face to face. To them, it was a dead-eyed survey, a ruler silently weighing his subjects. Each glance felt like a blade pressed to their throats.
But inside, his thoughts meandered with the same unassuming innocence they always did.
Hm… it looks like they were arguing… their faces are all stiff. Were they fighting again? I hope they stop soon… it's such a waste of dinner if everyone's upset.
His gaze passed over Antonio. The boy sat rigid, fists tight, eyes smoldering with the restless pride of youth. To Antonio, that look from his brother was judgment, an unspoken test of loyalty. His heart thundered, and he swore silently: I won't fail you, brother. Never.
But in Vincenzo's head—Ah, Antonio… my little brother. Always loud, always reckless. But he listens to me, doesn't he? Even when he pretends not to. He still calls me brother. That's… nice. I hope he isn't too hungry while we sit here staring at each other.
His eyes lingered next on Nick. The cousin's smirk was tight, masking his own nervous awe. To Nick, that glance was a reminder: his cousin saw through every pretense, every mask, and only his actions would prove his worth. I'll make you proud, brother, Nick vowed silently. I'll show the city I carry your shadow too.
In Vincenzo's mind—Nick… Antonio's partner in crime. Both arrogant, both noisy. They fight like cats, but they eat like wolves. Hm… I wonder if they'll fight each other again at the table. Better not. The food will get cold.
His gaze moved to Isabella. She stiffened, nails digging crescent moons into her palm, resentment burning behind her eyes even as guilt gnawed at her heart. To her, that hollow stare was an accusation, a reminder of all she had lost because of him. And yet, shame whispered in her chest: It's not his fault I'm alone… is it?
In Vincenzo's thoughts—Isabella… my older sister. Always scolding, always upset. She looks angry again. Maybe Antonio said something foolish? She does that little frown when she's really mad… ah, she shouldn't wrinkle her forehead. She's pretty when she smiles. I wish she'd smile more.
Then his eyes landed on Lucia. The girl froze, fork trembling in her hand. Fear twisted her gut, resentment snarling under it. I hate him. I hate that I can't live normal, that everyone whispers his name and stares at me. I hate him. But in the darkest corner of her heart, another thought slipped in: I feel safe when he's here. No one would dare touch me.
Vincenzo blinked once. Lucia… my little sister. She looks nervous again. Always nervous. I hope she's eating enough… she's still growing, isn't she? She'll need her strength. Ah, but she's glaring at me… did I do something wrong?
His gaze flickered to Clara. His mother. Her lips trembled faintly, her eyes brimming with fear and guilt. Every time she looked at him, she saw both the little boy she once cradled and the inhuman figure the city now called a devil. Her heart broke under the weight of both.
But Vincenzo only thought—Mama looks pale again. She worries too much. I wish she wouldn't look at me like that… like I'm a stranger. I'm still her son. I didn't change that much… did I?
He drifted on. Rafael, Marco—the uncles. Both stiff-backed, hiding their fear in smoke and silence. They saw in him not just a nephew, but the power that kept the family alive. They carry themselves like men who've seen too much, Vincenzo mused quietly in his head, but they're always kind to me. Always serious, though. Hm… maybe I should tell them the stew smells nice?
His eyes shifted to Luca, calm and analytical, watching like a general awaiting orders. To Luca, that glance was recognition—I am your right hand, cousin. Your shadow. Give the word, and I will carry it out.
And to Vincenzo—Luca never talks much. But he's steady. Like a wall. It's… comfortable, knowing he's there.
Enzo's stare burned back, loyal and intense. He felt like a sword kept at Vincenzo's side, eager to strike at the faintest gesture. To him, that look was affirmation—I am your blade. Use me.
And Vincenzo only thought—Enzo is… loud when he fights, but he's strong. Always dependable. Always here. I'm lucky, aren't I? To have them both…
Cathy caught his eye next, and her breath caught in her throat. That dead-eyed stare pierced straight through her, and her heart thrilled at it. To her, it was a promise: the embodiment of everything she admired. Cold, cruel, untouchable. She practically trembled.
Vincenzo, tilting his head faintly—Cathy smiles too much when things are bad. Hm. She looks… happy. That's odd. Maybe she liked the food already?
Frank sat rigid under his gaze, anger and conscience colliding inside him. He wanted to despise Vincenzo, wanted to curse him for the fear and blood that followed his name—but he couldn't. He bowed inside himself to the weight of the legend.
Vincenzo thought simply—Frank studies too hard. Always frowning. Maybe he should laugh more. Life's too short to always be serious, isn't it?
Finally, his eyes fell on little Mia. The five-year-old blinked back at him, spoon clutched in her hand. To her, his look wasn't frightening. It was just… big brother staring. She smiled faintly, soft and trusting.
And Vincenzo's heart warmed for the briefest flicker, though his face never changed. Mia… so small. She always smiles at me. Even when the others don't. Hm… I should give her extra dessert later.
His gaze finally lowered to his untouched plate. The food was cooling. The room was still frozen in silence, every family member drowning in their own storm of fear, resentment, respect, or awe.
But in his mind, he only sighed.
I'm really hungry… how am I supposed to eat when everyone looks like they're about to kill each other? Maybe if I stay quiet, they'll calm down… then I can eat in peace.
He picked up his fork. The quiet clink against the plate sounded like thunder.
And the Moretti family—every single one of them—saw in that small motion not a man preparing to eat, but the devil himself, content to dine after painting the city in blood.